Finding Cassie Crazy Page 18

  Anyhow, maybe your friend Cass is not as weak as you think—I have this feeling, from what you’ve said, that Cass has a fair bit of strength of character. Plus, she’s got you and Em.

  So I don’t think that the risk was all that real.

  Issue number 4, and the final issue, is about feeling powerless. You seem like a girl who likes a lot of power. My suggestion is to think of ways of feeling powerful that also make you feel good. Example: I am excellent at burping my baby brother. This is a powerful yet good thing to be able to do: MAKE HIM BURP. It means he doesn’t have a pain in his little baby tummy.

  You come over to my place and I’ll teach you how to do it.

  Yours sincerely

  Seb

  Dear Seb

  You put a lot of thought into that letter. Thanks. You’re a good guy.

  And Em says Charlie’s going to steal Christina any minute. So he’s a good guy too.

  I’m sitting in the lower courtyard, leaning against the brick wall. That’s why the handwriting is wobbly. It’s freezing. Is it freezing at Brookfield too or do you have different weather there? This is the only place in our whole school where there’s any sun at lunchtime. But the sun moves so we have to follow it along the wall.

  Em just gave me her woollen gloves because she’s worried about me getting too cold while I’m writing, and I said I couldn’t write wearing gloves so she took them back and cut off the fingers. Which seems excessive. Sorry, I mean which shows how nice Em is, and I’m just going to write about what a wonderful, beautiful, amazing, smart, generous, compassionate person Em is, as she is reading over my shoulder and dictating to me.

  Okay, she seemed satisfied.

  Now Cass is trying to give me her scarf so she can get the same kind of praise. TOO LATE, CASSIE.

  Hey Seb, I’ve been thinking about a new assignment and it can take place Saturday week if you’re available. We have to pretend we don’t know each other again and it goes like this:

  1. Get the 2.37 City via Strathfield train, third carriage from the front, upstairs, and then change to the Circular Quay train.

  2. Get the ferry to Taronga then the bus to Balmoral Beach.

  3. Get off at Balmoral Beach, buy fish and chips.

  4. Sit on the sand and eat the fish and chips.

  5. Go home.

  Somewhere between items 2 and 3, I have to get a message to you, without anybody seeing it, and you have to tell me what it is in your next letter. Somewhere between 4 and 5, you have to get a message to me.

  I see you shaking your head, a frown slowly creasing your forehead. Smooth the frown away, Seb, you look like a turtle.

  Thanks again for your nice letter.

  See you

  Lyd

  PS Except for one thing—it’s not a ‘relief ’ not to be able to beat someone up, Seb. That’s wrong right there.

  Dear Lydia

  Okay. See you at Balmoral Beach on Saturday week. Why so far away? I’m ready to do an assignment today. It seems like a well-thought-out program, Lyd, and I’m proud of you. You forgot to give it a name though.

  You know what I remembered the other day, which might make you feel a bit better? I once beat up Paul Wilson. It was in Year 7, and the early days of my beating people up. He deserved it, because he was being a prick to my Art teacher (the one I told you about—I loved her a lot in those days, whereas now she’s my buddy).

  This was in the days before Paul Wilson developed his smarmy personality and started getting teachers into bed with him.

  So, anyway, when we left the art room, I started a fight with him. Actually, I think I even knocked him unconscious.

  No, I didn’t. Now I remember. He took a dive. I hardly touched him and he threw himself down writhing, like the snake that he is. I got two weeks detention on account of that little piece of performance art of his.

  I shouldn’t have remembered that story. I’m starting to lose my temper again. The little arsehole.

  See you

  Seb

  Dear Seb

  I was just peeling some potatoes for dinner and they all looked like crisp white potatoes until I cut them in half. Every single one had a rotten, grey core. Like a circle of grey reaching almost to the edge of the potato.

  So I came up to my room to write to you.

  You know what I feel like? I feel like the whole world is black, rotting and evil. Even when it looks crisp on the outside, that’s a lie, because you can’t trust anything—on the inside it’s nothing but mould.

  Like that Paul Wilson—acting like a good guy so all the teachers love him.

  And like my mother, she used to be an actress on this daytime soapie that no one has ever heard of now and she was kind of famous, and she thought she was heading for Hollywood.

  But the show got axed, because it was crap, and she never got another acting job and now she just owns a production studio, but she hardly ever goes there, and she gets more wrinkled every day. And the only thing left to make her think she’s a celebrity is sometimes they call her to go on a charity telethon and, once, a couple of years ago, Woman’s Day did a crap ‘Where Are They Now?’ story, in which she got photographed with her happy family.

  And Cass’s dad—I used to think when people went into remission it meant they got cured. It doesn’t mean that, it means they’ve got the cancer to go down for a few years, but it’ll come back for sure.

  Today at lunchtime, Em was upset because she failed a History exam. And I hate to confess this but it just made me feel scared, like the darkness is about to envelop all three of us. That’s my greatest fear.

  I didn’t say that to Em of course. I told her that she’d get 100 in the next exam. But how long can you keep lying for?

  Because secretly I thought she’s never going to get good enough marks to get into law school, even though that’s her dream. And Cass is never going to be able to be a singer, like she really wants to, because she’ll never be able to sing in public. And I’ll never never be a writer because practically nobody gets to be a writer, and there’s no way I’ll ever get published, and I can’t even finish the novels that I start.

  So, see, nothing good is ever going to happen and anyone who says it is is lying to you.

  I remember the day when I came home and told my parents that Mr Aganovic’s cancer had got into his brain. I was secretly hoping it wouldn’t be important, like they’d just have to give him a lot more chemo. But Mum said, ‘Oh Lydia’, as if I’d just told her I got caught shoplifting and she was really disappointed in me. Dad scraped his chair back from the table and walked out of the room. Dad and Mr Aganovic were pretty good friends—they went sailing together, and Dad was always buying chairs and coffee tables from Mr Aganovic.

  Okay, so this has been a fairly happy letter, eh. Just to cheer you up for today.

  Sorry.

  I should go back downstairs and see if I can find some unrotten potatoes for dinner. Mum must be wondering where I am..

  Best wishes

  Lydia

  Dear Lydia

  The world is not a dark place, okay? I’m fairly certain of that. Maybe it’s dark over in your Turramurra mansion there, but over here at Penno Hills we’ve got north-facing windows so we get plenty of sunshine. Come over and let me show you the sun.

  Plus, if you came by my place, I could show you something of exquisite beauty: my video collection of the best goals in World Cup history.

  I could also play you a particular Tom Waits song in my room and you can kick back on the bed there, and I’ll let you know when a line of music is about to happen that’ll get into your soul and cure every inch of that darkness of yours.

  And I could introduce you to my little baby brother, Nathaniel, and you could take a look at those cute little toes and have a little conversation with him: ‘De de de,’ he’ll say, all thoughtful. ‘Is that so?’ you can say, with interest.

  If you let me do these things for you, Lyd, you’ll see that the world is honest and not
full of rotten potatoes at all.

  Love

  Seb

  Dear Seb

  I didn’t remember telling you that I lived in a Turramurra mansion. We moved here a few years ago, and Dad wanted me to change schools and go to Abbotsleigh or Loreto, but no way was I going anywhere different to Em and Cass.

  I liked those examples you gave of things you find beautiful. Thanks, buddy.

  Well, I need to think of a new punishment for Paul Wilson. If I can just make him see what an arsehole he is, I’ll feel better. But the plan has just collapsed.

  You want to know what happened?

  We went over to Em’s place last night to work on a joint presentation that we’re giving in History and Em was acting weird. Mrs T was lying on the couch with cucumbers over her eyes—she said she’d been working until midnight every day this week—and Em started telling her about this theory of Cass’s mum. Something to do with there being no right or wrong, just a lot of different ways of looking at the world. It was strange, because she was telling her mum in this hostile way, like she almost wanted her mum to disagree. And Mrs T just lay there listening and then she said, in a reasonable voice, ‘Well, I agree but maybe she’s being a bit too postmodern for me. I think there are some absolute truths.’

  ‘Like what?’ Em demanded.

  ‘Well, I think you should never hurt other people and never hurt yourself. Maybe Patricia agrees with that anyway. But you could look at the way certain cultures treat women and you could interpret it as cultural differences, but I say if the women are being mistreated, then I say that’s wrong. That’s all. Just wrong.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous,’ said Em.

  ‘In what way?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Well, you can’t have absolutes. You can’t say that you should never hurt other people or hurt yourself, because maybe you have to hurt yourself because someone else has been hurt and they’re your friend, and hurting yourself is the only way to stop your friend hurting, and—’

  ‘Give me an example of that situation,’ said Mrs T.

  But Em stamped her foot and ran upstairs to her bedroom.

  Cass and I went up there and she was getting out the stuff for the assignment, slamming books down and kicking things aside and making ‘tch’ noises and sighs, while Cass and I opened our eyes at each other, until finally we said she had to tell us what was wrong.

  Then Em started crying and said she was in love with Charlie.

  She said she’d been trying not to notice it because she knows Charlie has to steal Paul Wilson’s girlfriend, but she really, really likes him and she just can’t stop.

  We hadn’t actually told Cass about our revenge plan. When she figured out what Em was going on about, she just shook her head and threw her hands in the air, the way her Grandma Matilda does.

  She said we should forget Paul Wilson and get on with our lives. She said she would like to see him suffer but not if Em has to suffer. And not if it means stealing a girlfriend. As if a girlfriend was like his wallet or something, instead of a human being.

  That was a good point actually, which I should have thought of.

  And then I agreed that I didn’t think Em should give up Charlie if she liked him.

  But anyway, Em stopped crying while Cass and I talked, and then she started crying again but in a happy way and gave us both hugs, and we didn’t do the assignment, we just listened to Em saying all the things she likes about Charlie for the rest of the night.

  I’m not supposed to be telling you this, Seb. Em would kill me. But I know I can trust you.

  If you think of any other revenge ideas, can you tell me? I’m kind of down again, because I can’t stand the thought of Paul Wilson walking around like he’s allowed to be walking around.

  I guess I’ll see you next Saturday for the assignment at Balmoral Beach. Are you still free?

  Lydia

  Dear Lydia

  It’s a shame about the revenge not working out. But I’ve been thinking it was a tragic plan, since I also have the impression that Charlie likes Emily. Furthermore, I think Christina’s on the verge of breaking up with Paul all on her own, so the plan was destined to take an unexpected turn.

  Maybe you should do what Cass suggests and just forget about it? I’ve had a lot of thoughts about revenge in the last year, what with almost getting expelled and it nearly breaking my mother’s heart. If I did one thing wrong last term then I would have been chucked out. That included even failing a single exam.

  That’s why I needed you to help me get out of exams, by the way. Just to get myself a bit of extra time to study, so I wouldn’t fail.

  Thanks for that.

  But anyway, during that crisis time, I had a lot of talks with my mum about violence and so on. And my mum is a pretty cool lady, who tries to speak in my own language, that is, the language of soccer.

  This is kind of sweet of her, because she doesn’t really speak the language. Sometimes she sits down to watch a soccer game with Dad and me, and she leans forward trying to figure out what’s going on, and Dad and I shake our heads at each other. But after a few minutes, she remembers the rules and then she starts shouting at the TV as much as we do. And she always says, ‘Who’s going to lose?’ and we tell her, then she roots for that team.

  So, anyway, last term Mum was driving me home from one of the appointments with the principal and she said, ‘You know when you’re watching a Manchester United game, and they keep getting the ball all the way up the field and then, just before they get to the ring, they lose it?’

  The ring. I told you my mum was sweet.

  ‘No,’ I said at the time, ‘that never happens to Man U. They always score.’

  ‘Seb,’ she said, warningly.

  So I said, ‘Okay, sure. That might happen sometimes.’

  ‘And you get all excited and you’re jumping up and down ready for the victory?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, to keep her happy.

  ‘And then it’s such a disappointment when they lose the ball at the last second, and you know they have to start all over again?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s how I feel sometimes watching my eldest son.’ She meant me. I’m her oldest son. ‘I can see him working away, doing well at school, heading towards the goal posts, and then wham, just when he’s almost there, he’s in the principal’s office because he got into another fight, and I’m heading up to the school to try to talk them out of kicking him off the team.’

  So that gave me something to think about, and then, while I was still thinking about it, she started talking about football hooligans, and it was clear that she’d been planning this speech for a while. She talked about how they ruin the game because they overreact when their team loses, and they start hurting other people, and sometimes people even die.

  ‘And Seb,’ she said, ‘you know that soccer is just a game, don’t you?’

  I got a bit shocked by this piece of wisdom, but she’s actually right. Even if you feel like crap when Man U loses, and you feel like you’ve been taking E when they win, well, it’s still just a game.

  So, all this comes down to Cass and how that arsehole was bad to her, but is it really worth hurting yourself or hurting Em to get revenge?

  You’ve got to get things into perspective, Lyd.

  I hope this has helped.

  I can’t wait to see you this Saturday and I could die waiting. But that’s not what you call perspective.

  See you

  Seb

  Hey Seb

  I like the sound of your mother.

  Also, I’m glad I helped you get through the probation last term. But I’ve been thinking, did you actually skip school to do those tasks that I gave you, like moving the polar bear sign around the shopping centre and putting ribbons around trees?

  Okay, I take your point about perspective, but I don’t think what Paul Wilson did to Cass was a game. I think it was serious and I think he has to be punishe
d.

  Anyhow, it’s Friday afternoon so you probably won’t get this until Monday. I’m seeing you at Balmoral tomorrow for the assignment.

  I hope it’s not too cold at the beach. Just go ahead and build an igloo if it is. You can use sand for that. Put in stained-glass windows and a fireplace.

  Great.

  Thanks.

  See you

  Lyd

  To: LYDIA JAACKSON-OBERMAN

  SPECIAL COVERT OPERATION REPORT

  Agent: AKA (aka Seb Mantegna)

  OPERATION: Operation Balmoral Beach

  Assigned by Agent Lydia

  RESULT: Unsuccessful

  Agent AKA hereby hands in his badge and gun and resigns.

  DETAILS OF FAILURE: Agent AKA proceeded through train, ferry, buying fish and chips successfully, and thinks that Lydia’s message was: Watch out for windsurfers, weddings and whales.

  However, Agent AKA did not complete the next phase successfully. Instead of behaving like a stranger, Agent AKA moved along the sand to sit next to Agent Lydia and kissed her. This kissing kept up for about half an hour or so, until it got too cold to be on the beach, and then continued on the trip home until we fell asleep and missed Hornsby Station. Agent Lydia seemed fairly into this but I take full responsibility for the failure.

  EXPLANATION OF FAILURE: Have you seen what Agent Lydia looks like? Have you ever sat two metres away from her on the beach and seen the way she hugs her knees in the cold? If so, you don’t need an explanation.

  QUERY: Lyd, do I actually have to makeup another assignment before I can touch you again?

  Hey Seb

  You can keep your badge and your gun etc. I’m okay with what you did. Actually, I liked it. I’ll put in a good word with the boss.

  But don’t you want to keep playing?

  Lyd

  Dear Lydia

  I don’t want to keep playing, I just want to see you.

  A lot of time has passed since we started writing letters, and I feel like I know a lot about you, but at the same time there’s a whole lot I don’t know at all. It confuses me, Lyd. Example: I don’t know what you like and what you don’t like. You could even have a boyfriend, for all I know.